"Where are we going?" John asked when they stepped out of the hotel. It was coming on dusk, almost nine, although the sun wouldn't fully set for about another hour. A long day made even longer – it seemed difficult to believe that only that morning, he'd had breakfast as usual with his husband before heading into the clinic for a shortened Friday workday, Sherlock heading off to St. Bart's at the same time that John left. A bit surreal that now they were in Edinburgh, trying to chase down a missing child, a nephew – albeit by marriage – that he hadn't even known until that afternoon that he had.
John envied the man from that morning, who had read his paper and eaten his breakfast without any knowledge or consideration that this was even a possibility.
"Hush," Sherlock replied, eyes fixed ahead of him. "I'm trying to think."
John sighed, but quietly, falling into step with his husband. To his surprise, Sherlock hailed them a cab, despite his insistence that he wanted to walk and think.
"Thought this was a stroll?" John asked.
"It will be," Sherlock replied. "Do be quiet, John, you're distracting me."
He directed the cabbie to take them to the Royal Mile, a short ride of only about five minutes. Sherlock paid and hustled John out into the cool evening air. John was glad he'd brought a light jacket, at least, because although it wasn't cold, it was going to be uncomfortable without one as the sun set.
"Now what?" John asked.
"How many times do I have to tell you to hush?" Sherlock asked. "I'm thinking."
John rolled his eyes and followed Sherlock up the street until they reached a ghost tours booth, where Sherlock stopped and purchased two tickets.
"A ghost tour?" John asked. "Now?"
"Yes," Sherlock said. "But not now, in ten minutes. Come on, let's get a coffee."
John hesitated at the idea of so much caffeine so late in the day, then decided it was probably worth it; he was unlikely to get any real sleep any time soon. Sherlock wouldn't notice, of course, but he himself would. He thought longingly of the large and comfortable bed back in their suite at the hotel and wished he could curl up on it and do away with Mycroft and his problems.
They found a café and got two take away coffees, sipping them silently on the way back to meet up with the ghost tour group. John wondered what was going on – Sherlock certainly had a reason for this, since he didn't believe in ghosts or anything supernatural, of course, and it seemed an inexplicably odd thing to do when trying to consider the location of a missing boy and who may have abducted him. But he held his tongue, so as not to get reprimanded again about letting Sherlock think.
The crowd was all tourists, talking and laughing in groups of twos or threes, looking eager to start this adventure. The last time they'd been to Edinburgh – which had been far preferable to this trip, all things considered – Sherlock had arranged with one of the many people he oh-so-coincidentally knew for a private tour of the vaults beneath the city. John wondered if this was what he was after again, access to the vaults, because that was where a majority of this tour took place.
The crowd was large enough that it would be a good size once they got underground. Sherlock kept them hanging near the back, being unobtrusive, sipping their coffees. John listened with only half an ear to the tour guide when he started with a history of the city and some of the local legends. They were led past an old church and given its ghost lore, then to a supposedly haunted pub and old hotel that was now divided into flats and other businesses. Sherlock seemed to be paying attention, bright eyed and interested, smiling along with all of the other tourists, laughing in the right places, not at all conspicuous.
John wondered what his game was.
Eventually, they were taken down into the old vaults and Sherlock maintained their position at the back of the group, looking about with interest, as if he'd never been down there before. Certainly, the last time they were there, they were in a different area of the vaults, so John kept a sharp eye out when they passed by darkened chambers and hallways heading off in other directions that may or may not have been dead ends. He was confident Sherlock had a map of the entire system in his mind, which was good, because one wrong turn and John would have spent an eternity wandering down there, perhaps becoming one of the ghosts himself. The thought almost made him smile, until he recalled what they were supposed to be doing.
About ten minutes in, as the group was led down a corridor and around a corner to visit an old wine cellar, Sherlock put a hand on John's arm and stepped them both neatly into a darkened, shadowed room. He pressed a finger to John's lips, listening, then hustled them out again and back down the hall in the direction from which they'd come, then down a corridor they hadn't used, slipping them into another room, smaller by the feel of the air around them, although completely dark. John strained to see something; he wasn't used to this intensity of darkness and found it somewhat uncomfortable. Sherlock put his fingertips against John's lips again, which John normally would have liked, had it not been done to shut him up.
"Sherlock, what's going on?" he hissed when Sherlock released him. "They're going to notice we're gone."
"No," Sherlock said. "We weren't interesting. No questions, at the back of a large group, and the tour guide was more interested in the trio of Dutch girls flirting with him and asking him nonsense about how many ghosts he'd seen. We're fine."
"Well then can we go somewhere where it isn't pitch dark?" John asked.
"Give it a few minutes. Finish your coffee," Sherlock replied.
John did that, waiting. Finally, he sighed.
"What's this about?" he asked, starting to run low on patience. He was used to Sherlock's eccentricities and with trying to keep up with him, but he wasn't used to being hauled off to another country to deal with something Mycroft needed resolved on top of dealing with Sherlock's normal behaviour on a case.
"I told you, I need to think."
"I understand that. Why down here?"
"No mobile service."
"So what, Mycroft can't call us? That's brilliant, Sherlock, what if the kidnappers call again and he needs to reach us?"
John could almost see the irritated expression Sherlock flashed at him through the darkness.
"They won't. I did say that. Keep up, John. They want to talk to us when we're all there."
"But why?"
"Not sure yet," Sherlock replied. John wondered if he was chewing on his lower lip. "But no, I mean without mobile service we can't be tracked, and these vaults are unlikely to be monitored or bugged. And we're alone, no pedestrians, so we're not going to be overheard."
"Well, that's lovely," John said dryly.
"Chin up, John, it's not that bad," Sherlock said.
"Not for us," John replied darkly. "For David it is."
"I haven't forgotten about him," Sherlock admonished. "Come, let's go."
He lead them back out, John shoving his empty coffee cup into his pocket so he could hold one of Sherlock's hands and trace the fingers of the other along the stone wall until it was light enough to properly see. Sherlock didn't have this problem – probably memorized the feel of the layout on the way in, John thought. He found them another room, one that was lit tangentially from the lamps in the corridor and that mercifully also had some stone benches built into the walls. John sat down, but Sherlock paced the short length of the floor, thinking.
"CIA?" John asked.
"No," Sherlock said, tapping his long fingers lightly against his lips. "This is too personal. Why would they play games? If the CIA needed something from Mycroft, they could negotiate for it easily without resorting to kidnapping and all of this nonsense. I'm certain all of these agencies have bargaining chips they can use with one another, and they'd not want to have either of us dragged into it. Too messy. I think this also rules out the other intelligence agencies, CSIS, Europol, Interpol, MI6, et cetera."
"Then who?" John asked.
"Not sure, a private individual who may have had something to do with them once. Someone who can hire other former agents. But I'm more concerned about why he was asking you so many questions."
"He doesn't sound familiar," John said. "I really hope it's not someone I know."
Sherlock shook his head.
"I doubt that," he agreed. "Too coincidental. He's playing with us, John, so whatever he was asking you, he has a reason for it."
"Why would some American care about what I think about London? Or about my shoulder?"
"No idea," Sherlock said. "I'm working on it. I suppose he also could have been Canadian, yes? Their accents are similar, as are their expressions."
"I don't think so," John replied. Sherlock stopped pacing then, giving him a quizzical look. "A lot of the Canadians I worked with in Afghanistan picked up our slang when they spent long periods of time with us. Not all of them, but a lot more than the Americans. I think it's a Commonwealth identity thing. If he were Canadian, I'd say it's odds on he'd have said 'brilliant' instead of 'great', given that he was speaking with what I thought was a quite good English accent."
"It was quite good," Sherlock agreed. "And that was very astute, John, I am impressed."
John's lips twitched into a smile.
"I'm not a complete lackwit, you know," he replied.
Sherlock snorted.
"Clearly. If you were, I'd have nothing to do with you. Now let me think."
John lapsed back into silence, watching his husband pace.
"You worked with Americans in Afghanistan," Sherlock said suddenly, stopping again.
"Yes," John replied, nodding. "Among others."
"He asked how London was treating you, knowing where you'd been. He asked about your shoulder, and what you took for it. And then my leg."
John nodded again.
"Take off your jacket," Sherlock instructed.
"Sorry?"
"Your jacket. Take it off. And your shirt."
"Do you really think this is the right time to shag me?" John asked.
Sherlock shot him a glare.
"Will you just do as I say?" he demanded. "We can save the fun for later. I need to see your shoulder."
Hesitantly, John shrugged off his jacket then unbuttoned his shirt, laying it on top of his coat beside him on the stone bench. Sherlock motioned him to stand up, so he did, feeling slightly chilled in the cool air of the stone vaults. And more than a little exposed.
Sherlock stepped over to him, putting one hand gently on John's head and tipping it to the right carefully, eyes focused on the scar. He ran his fingers over the old wound lightly and John repressed a shudder. He felt even more exposed now, and somewhat vulnerable, and he couldn't remember the last time Sherlock had examined him so critically for reasons that were not personal. And especially not in a potentially public place.
Normally, the feel of Sherlock's fingers caressing his skin would be welcome, but it was not entirely so this time. John felt goosebumps stand up on his arms that weren't only a result of feeling chilled. He kept his eyes trained on Sherlock's face, but the consulting detective was deep in thought, gazing at John's old wound.
"How much ibuprofen do you take for it, and how often?" Sherlock asked, not raising his eyes.
"Um," John said, biting his lip, wishing he could put his shirt back on. "Usually two when I need it, three if it's really bad. But only when we get a bad storm or I've slept on it, so what, maybe once a month, month and a half? More in the winter when it snows."
Sherlock rested his hand on John's shoulder, lightly, his palm crossing John's clavicle, his fingers resting against the scar. John was aware of the faintest of pressures, the warmth from Sherlock's hand against his skin, contrasting the cool air in the vaults.
"How much would it take for you to need morphine for it?" Sherlock asked.
A jolt shot down John's spine and he froze, his breathing hitching. He was all too aware of Sherlock's attitude toward experimentation and getting answers to his questions by any means necessary. And of his hand, resting right over John's old injury.
He remembered Moriarty's fingers digging into the scar tissue, reinjuring him, how much it had hurt, the hot, white pain from which there was no hiding, no escape, no distraction, and Moriarty's complete disinterest in it. Cool, calculating eyes, after a result, nothing more.
The same way Sherlock was looking at him now.
Sherlock moved his hands suddenly, pulling them away and stepping back, holding his palms out. John stayed frozen for a moment, then stepped back himself, repressing a shudder with a glare. For a moment, he couldn't speak, then swallowed and forced his voice to work.
"Don't you ever, ever do that again," he said unsteadily, snatching his shirt. "Ever."
He managed to get his shirt back on, hands trembling somewhat as he forced them to move properly.
"I wasn't going to in the first place," Sherlock said. "I wouldn't, John."
John let out a shaky breath, half wondering if he believed Sherlock about that. But the expression on Sherlock's face, the shock at realizing what John thought he'd been about to do, was enough to convince him. John raked his hands through his hair, then nodded.
"Good," he said, getting his voice back under control. "Just, warn me or something next time. Or just make it so there's no next time."
"I still need you to tell me how much it would take for you to use morphine," Sherlock replied quietly.
John glared at him.
"A lot. Pretty much what Moriarty did it to, Sherlock. I don't like morphine. I wouldn't use it just for pain, not anymore, because it's never that bad."
"How often did you use it after it was injured? When you got back to England, I mean, not while you were in the hospital in Afghanistan."
"Just over a month," John said. "Then I had to start tapering off. It was that, or be an addict."
Sherlock nodded, his movement slow, as it to avoid startling John.
"And I was given it when I was in the hospital, almost up until I left."
"Yes, I remember. So? What has this got to do with anything?"
"Morphine is an opiate derivative. A high percentage of opiates come from Afghanistan, although a good portion of that is sold as heroin, of course."
"And?" John pressed.
"He was pointing us to Afghanistan," Sherlock said. "John, when you were there, did you work with any of the American mercenary organizations?"
"Sometimes," John replied, nodding.
"What were they like?"
"Generally fine, just soldiers doing their job, but someone else was paying their wages. You'd get the occasional nut job, but their companies usually dealt them with pretty quickly. No one wants a loose cannon in that kind of situation, no matter who you work for."
"What kind of training did they have?"
"Same as most military, if not better, I think," John replied. "A lot of them were former military getting paid more. Why?"
"I think that's what we're dealing with," Sherlock said. "At least, I think that's who our caller is. Not the person behind all of this, but it gets us some information."
"Are you serious?" John asked.
"Completely," Sherlock replied. "We're dealing with someone well-trained, well-equipped, who could get into and out of a former agent's highly secured home, wit her son, without alerting anyone, who would be able to abduct a child professionally and without qualms and kill whomever was in his way, and who is also used to taking orders. Unfortunately, it may also be that we're dealing with one of those men you said were dismissed by their companies, someone who needed a new line of work and was used to obeying commands for good money."
John felt a chill go through him that had nothing to do with the cool air in the vaults.
"Not good news for David," he said.
"Not necessarily," Sherlock countered. "This man is following orders. Whoever is behind this still wants something from Mycroft, and won't get it if David is killed. Come, we need to go back. They'll need to know about this."